


The Queen's Wedding Night

by Miri Cleo (miri_cleo)



Category: Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Het, Missing Scene, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miri_cleo/pseuds/Miri%20Cleo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from The King of Attolia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen's Wedding Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for roseveare in the Yuletide 2008 challenge.
> 
> All characters and concepts belong to Meghan Whalen Turner and HarperCollins.
> 
> This fic contains spoilers for The Queen of Attolia and The King of Attolia.

Attolia did not hear him approach, but she had not expected to in the first place. She imagined that she could hear the sounds of the celebrations continuing far below her. They were nothing but an indistinguishable roar, weighted to dullness underneath the silence of her room, the silence of her stare.

In the darkness of her windowpane, she could see his half shadowed face. She could see him watching her. His scarred cheek was free of stubble, and she was reminded again of how very young he was.

“Do you think to take me to bed now?” She did not turn, and he did not move.

“That is generally what one does with one’s bride on the wedding night. Or is that not so in Attolia?”

She did not need to see his reflection; there was the ghost of a smile, a smirk, in his voice. Attolia bowed her head. The rubies in her hair, in her ears, glistened like fresh blood in the lamplight and her hands were folded, still in her lap. He obviously had no idea precisely what had taken place on her first wedding night.

Eugenides pushed off of the threshold. She could see his legs moving forward; she heard the door latch heavily. He stepped with all the quietness of a dancer, but the sound still filled the room. Attolia raised her head, and when their eyes met, he stopped.

She gathered her skirts, rising as easily as the evening shadows. “And do you think to be my king?” Attolia paused, but when he made no response, no acerbic remark, her voice assumed a smile. “Or hadn’t you thought that far ahead?”

Attolia decided not to let him answer. Her skirts swept against the floor as she sat in the high backed chair at her desk. “Tell me, in all your wisdom and experience, what your first act as king would be?” She was looking up to him now, but her shadow fell across his face.

“I didn’t think you expected me to be anything but a figurehead,” he replied, arching one of his eyebrows in amusement.

“That is not my wish.” Attolia resisted the urge to snap. He was infuriating, and that was exactly what he wanted.

Eugenides crossed his arms smugly, hook resting in the crook of his elbow. “I’m going to reduce the Guard by half.”

The status of the guard was unquestionable. Attolia’s eyes darkened and narrowed as her lips hardened into a thin line. She could believe his audacity, but that hardly meant she would stand for it.

Her long fingers curled around the smallest inkpot, the one closest to her. It warmed in her grasp; its glaze caught the light when she hurled it through the air by way of an answer. Eugenides ducked, as she knew he would, and the ceramic smash was as unsatisfying as the spreading stain, as the scent of the blackest ink.

Attolia was on her feet again. “Unacceptable,” she snapped.

“You asked me what I would do, and I have told you, My Queen.”

He bowed his head slightly—a mockery in Attolia’s eyes. But she could not see his expression for her own shadow. With the Mede massing with every passing day, she could not afford to lose the Guard. While her country continued to exist in a state of barely contained unrest, she would not allow him to make such a decision. Attolia trusted few, but she trusted the walls she had built around herself. The Guard was one such wall.

Her trust in Eugenides extended only as far as she could allow. Attolia needed him to be king in more than name. But she would not force him outright—she could not. What they had, what they were beginning, was already too weighted with her own guilt.

“Of course,” Attolia began, her features cooling into perfectly sculpted stone, “My King. I will be happy to see the Guard reduced.” Eugenides, she knew, would be triumphant enough, but Attolia was not finished. “You only need only ask Teleus and have him agree.”

The thief looked up abruptly, and while his face held the same aloof but not altogether unpleasant expression as always, Attolia could see that his eyes had darkened. She did not, however, count it as a victory. She could not—not yet.

“Surely a king does not need such a permission.”

Attolia clasped her hands calmly in front of her. “I am sure you can find your way to your own chambers for the night.”

“I will not.”

Attolia had already turned, but at this, she stilled, standing straighter as her skirts settled against her hips. Slowly, she faced him, expecting to find every bit the petulant child she knew he could be. Her eyes widened; she knew that no one would have noticed her surprise, not even her longest serving attendants. But he knew.

Shadows shrouded his face, played off of every premature line, every hidden remnant of pain. His scar stood out violently. Attolia drew in a slow breath, but he was moving, two quick, quiet steps—a shadow, himself.

Irene felt his lips, warm against hers, his palm rough and warm on her neck, his fingertips in her hair; she tasted the salt of his tongue. But her limbs became rigid, her lips stone, as she felt it cool against her cheek—his hook. She remembered his silence more clearly than she remembered his pleading.

Eugenides did not yield the kiss until he had finished, and Attolia allowed the touch. It was far less of a punishment than she deserved. He took her hand to lead her to bed, and her footsteps were heavy with the memories of that day—memories that had rooted themselves not only in her mind but also in her heart. And as for this day, she had kept her thoughts away from it only because she knew there was fresh grief to be had.

Attolia’s fingers were calm as she worked the laces of her gown. Eugenides stepped behind her; she could feel his fingers on hers, pulling the lace entirely free. He opened the back of her dress, pushing it off of her shoulders. Attolia did not lift her arms to stop it from sliding to the floor. The fabric pooled about her feet, settling with the sound of a soft sigh. She could feel Eugenides’ lips on her neck; he was smiling just slightly against her pale skin as he untied her shift.

He touched her hair, pulling out each pin, before he touched her skin. It fell over Attolia’s shoulders and down her back. The weight of it settled familiarly; she felt tired as she turned to him, unconcerned with her nakedness, pointedly not looking into his eyes. She was afraid of what she might find there. She was afraid that all she would be able to see was fever and pain...and the emotion to which she could not put a name, the look that haunted her dreams of him.

Attolia untied his sash, removing it carefully, and Eugenides pulled his tunic over his head. She rested her soft fingertips on his chest; the skin there was smooth over lean muscles. Irene allowed herself to draw in a shaking breath—she knew how delicate such flesh could be.

The sheets on her bed were bright and crisp—new for the wedding night. Her attendants had turned them down before she arrived, but Attolia had not noticed until then. Eugenides followed her gaze. He pulled them back for her; only he did so delicately with his hook. Attolia’s lips thinned.

“You will remove that.” Her voice was quiet but no less commanding.

Eugenides’ face darkened as he held the covers still aloft. Attolia’s face had gone pale with contained rage. He was what she had made of him, and she slid between the sheets to escape seeing as much in his eyes. She gazed at the tapestry on the wall; it drew the light to it and swallowed it in the intricate details. When he slipped into bed next to her, his weight did not feel out of place. But it would never be that easy between them.

He cupped her cheek, and Attolia closed her eyes. She had touched him similarly before, though without so much as half the tenderness. He kissed her softly; Attolia returned the kiss without allowing herself to feel it. While she loved him, she could not allow it to absolve her.

Attolia bore his caresses with that in mind. Her sighs were audible, but Attolia allowed no more than that. He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling it intently. On the other, she felt the brush of his hook; it stiffened immediately, and she gritted her teeth. He touched her gently, like one who was accustomed to using his hands for delicacy in the best and worst of his deeds, and her body became a traitor for it.

When she felt his weight on her, when she felt him hard against her thigh, she opened her legs. Such was her duty. He pushed into her clumsily, but Attolia did not cry out. She was painfully aware of the weight he put on the left side of his body. Neither would be virgins ever again, but Eugenides was still inside of her. Attolia’s heart beat steadily, pounding like a stone against her chest.

He made a small, frustrated grunt—a boy yet again. Attolia kept her eyes easily shut to it. She felt him slip his arm underneath her; the hook was uncomfortably solid against her spine for a moment until she felt him lift her weight. Her eyes flew open despite all of her efforts. Eugenides was smiling beneath her, still inside of her with his hand on one hip and his hook against the small of her back.

She stayed absolutely still—a quiet, haughty statue. Eugenides caressed her cheek with his scarred hand; he trailed his fingers to her breast, where he cupped it, rubbing his thumb over her nipples. Attolia shuddered, her eyes softening as her body swayed forward just slightly.

At her slight movement, Eugenides closed his eyes, moaning softly, but all Attolia could see was the pain she caused him. She could feel it in the gentlest touch of his hook. And even though Attolia knew he would never so much as nick her porcelain skin, she felt trapped by it. His hand slipped from her breast to her thigh; Attolia closed her eyes as he pushed into her with jerks that were becoming steadily less controlled.

“Please,” he whispered, and though he grasped her thigh frantically, the hook, caressing her back almost tenderly, never moved.

Attolia’s cheeks colored as his face twisted with his climax. She could only see the ghost of his agony. When she bent to kiss him, her cheeks were wet with the tears she had not cried for him that day, the tears dammed by her pride. And when he wiped away her tears, his fingers held all the gentleness she had failed to give him.

One of the lamps guttered; when Attolia opened her eyes the shadows had lengthened across the room. The moon was cold in the opened window; a chill dappled Attolia’s skin even when Eugenides wrapped his arms around her. Eugenides carefully laid her on her back. His own cheeks were flushed—with what, Attolia could not say.

“Irene,” he whispered, breath warm against her neck.

Attolia turned her head away. The weight of his love was almost as oppressive as the mantle he did not want to accept. Her tears dried, leaving nothing but salt and guilt behind. Eugenides pulled his fingertips through her hair; he kissed her neck, her shoulder. His shadow fell across her body, and Attolia slowly turned her head. The guilt was hers and so was her pride.

She met Eugenides’ eyes, touched her lips to his. Attolia kissed him in the only way that she knew—fiercely. Eugenides made a surprised sound, but her lips muffled it; even so, she could hear it turn into a moan. She had never turned away from anything; she had not failed to meet his eye when she told him she loved him. And she would not hide from the intensity of his feeling; she was Attolia.

She snaked her hands up his chest, along the smooth skin to his neck. He trembled as she cupped his cheek.

“Thief,” she breathed, her voice warmer than ever before. Attolia curled along his side, feeling his hook warm against her hip. She traced her fingers along the cuff while her husband turned away. He did not stop her, nor would he, she knew. But he was pale as she carefully removed the instrument, the fruit of her revenge.

He sighed, breath jagged as he tentatively laced his fingers through her hair. Attolia brushed her fingers across his brow; it was cold with sweat. She kissed him, swallowing the memory. His eyes were clear when she met them; she kissed his shoulder, running her fingers down his right arm. Eugenides’ muscles tightened to move it away, but Attolia flattened her palm against it. The look of a cornered cat glimmered across his face for a moment, but against her thigh, Attolia could feel his arousal.

The shaking breath she drew was almost imperceptible. Her touch to his erection was feather light, but she felt his body arch underneath her. Irene kissed him almost savagely; she pressed her body against his, craving the heat that was between them. His hand came untangled from her dark hair and fell to her hip; she pushed herself onto him, crying out as he cried out.

Wisps of his hair stuck to his forehead, Attolia’s to her neck. She held him tightly, possessively as her body moved with his. And her climax came suddenly, silently; she stilled against him. Eugenides seemed content in stillness as well, and Attolia was surprised in his restraint. She settled against his chest, the weight of the night pulled at her eyelids.

His arm felt heavy against her back; Attolia blinked in her fatigue. In their shadow, in the folds of the now wrinkled sheets, his hook glistened. Attolia closed her eyes.

When she woke again, the shadows covered the entirety of the room and moved eerily as the flame of a single lamp began to die. The sheets seemed to tremble with it, but she soon realized that Eugenides was not lying beside her. He had not slipped away, as was her first thought and perhaps his first inclination. But Attolia could see him sitting on the bed beside the lonely lamp.

She held her breath, stilling the inclination to recoil. He cradled his stump against his chest, one knee pulled tightly against it as if he were protecting it from the dark. Attolia wanted to shut her eyes against it, but she knew she could neither dull her own pain nor take away his. Not yet.

His cheeks were bright with tears as he stared forward. The lamp died, but she could still feel him there. There would be many nights to come and perhaps then...


End file.
